


In a Perfect Universe

by SpaghettiCanActivist



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Bertie and Reginald Bonding, Gen, parental relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-07 03:16:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15899778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaghettiCanActivist/pseuds/SpaghettiCanActivist
Summary: An AU where Bertie is not an adult, but rather a small child. Jeeves finds his life turned upside down as he goes into the employ of Wooster. A fluffy, parental fic.





	In a Perfect Universe

In a perfect universe, so idealized by one Reggie Jeeves, the societal divisions would have him placed in the pleasing position of high class gentry, to be one of those who spent their lives and money on the philosophies of cultivation, sophistication and the upper quartets of human melody. However, no ideal universe is realized, and as such Reginald Jeeves, valet of said gentry, was standing outside his next home and occupation rather than being engaged in activities of his own choosing.

It was miserable outside, the usual English weather cocktail of moody skies and weeping clouds bringing him no joy. He snapped his shiny, black umbrella closed, a few well orchestrated shakes removing most of the excess rainwater. Looking up, he took in the building before him. The snugly fitting homes of the rich street were cramped together, yet commodious on the inside. The perfect town accessory of any well to do family. 

Jeeves let out a soft sigh before pursing his lips and pressing the buzzer. He’d heard little about his new employer, he had the name Bertram Wooster and that was all. What he did know was that Lady Agatha Worplesdon was Bertram Wooster’s aunt and that she was a fearsome woman in the serving world; bitter, capricious, and absolutely disagreeable. She was impossible to please, and Jeeves could imagine that if she was hiring him and her nephew wasn’t, then he had the faint glimmer of hope that Bertram Wooster was easily manipulated and disliked his aunt.

The door opened and he was ushered in by a maid. She quickly lead him to the sitting room. Reggie stood politely, looking at the window in deference as the Lady Worplesdon swept whatever trivial task she was occupied with to the side. A small nod from her and Reggie approached.

“You must be Reginald Jeeves,” she paused, gaze going up and down him with a cruel and critical eye.

“I surely hope you are as skilled as your agency has made you out to be.”

“One can only hope, madam,” Jeeves responded, a small obliging smile on his face.

A quick, amused smile adorned her face for a moment.

“Yes, I suppose so,” she replied, approval apparent in her tone.

“Well, no time to waste then in helping you meet Bertie,” Agatha waved to a maid and the girl moved off.

Reggie felt the moments pass with increasing anticipation. Whoever Bertram, or Bertie, Wooster was, would decide his fate. Would he be a cruel man like his aunt? Would he be a cowed, idle creature so common among the so called cream of society? Or would he be a frail, pathetic being, destroyed under the overbearing presence of his aunt and the expectations she had?

The door opened and the maid stepped through followed by Bertram Wooster.

Reggie couldn’t have been prepared for this, no scenario which he had carefully calculated in his mind would have anticipated this outcome. Bertram Wooster was a small boy, only about six or seven. He was frail looking, curly blonde hair coming from his head in thick succession to create a nearly angelic frame about his face. Brown, innocent eyes were staring apprehensively at Reggie. Reggie was disarmed by it all. Valets were not gotten for children, they were secured for men, or at least boys on the cusp of manhood.

“Come Bertie,” Agatha prompted, waving the child over with a hand.

The boy was silent, walking over to his aunt, but with those round eyes fixed on Reggie.

“I know he seems a slip of a thing, but Bertie is a man, I want him to act and be treated as such. He lost his parents recently and after such tragedy one can only conclude that the firm and supple marks to manhood have been made. I want to rear him ready for his position in life, I expect the best, so I have hired the best. I hope you will not disappoint me, Jeeves.”

Reggie didn’t let his lips turn into a frown, no matter how much he desired it. This was not his job, he was not hired to be a nanny. He had no direct skills at teaching and mothering, and he had not the natural maternal abilities that a woman, who should be in his place, had. It made sense though, in a cruel way, the boy probably had been left a good quantity of money and the commodity of a surname that had weight and meaning. The good Lady Worplesdon had seen an opportunity. Give the boy to someone who merely fed his whims and the child would be sedate and easy to control upon entering manhood. It was a clever piece of political power for a woman to take hold of, and in consideration of how little power a woman could have, Reggie could understand. He himself, due to his place in society, had little power. You learned quickly to take that power from where you could.

“Bertie has a newly furnished home in London which he will be traveling to, as his valet it is expected you will both accompany him and discretely take care of any matters concerning his then prolonged stay there. The details have been figured by my bankman and lawyer, all of that information will be shared with you before you leave today.”

Agatha made a few more motions to a serving man and the signalled individual swept out of the room. 

“Alright, go on Bertie,” she said, handing the child off to the maid.

Once they were out of the room, Agatha turned to Jeeves.

“I assume you can understand the importance, and uniqueness of this situation. I understand that it is not the usual turn of events, but to be successful one must make decisions others would not. I accept your discretion in Bertie’s doings and such. I can only assume that your skill would indicate an indisposal to failure. As for Bertie’s things,”

Agatha waved at another servant.

“Spoons will show you to the study where everything is prepared.”

With that, Agatha rose in graceful poise, moving out of the room with the gentle billow of her manifold skirts, rustling silk the only sound she made.

Reggie faced the serving man, his face implacable. The stage was set, the curtains had lifted and Reggie was facing the main act of his life, something he had never anticipated.

 

They set out at early evening, a car loaded with all of the necessary things and soon loaded with little Bertie and Reggie. They started out, smoothly driving through the streets. Reggie had no intention of sympathizing with the child, this young fortune rich child who stood as a symbol of the ironic paradox of poor and rich, educated and uneducated, deserving and undeserving.

“Hallo,” Bertie said shyly after a few minutes.

Reginald's gaze flicked with stoic disinterest at the boy. It was quiet a few moments and Bertie’s eyes grew wide and he bit his lip, seemingly working up courage.

“Aunt Agatha called you a valet, w-what is that?” The boy spat it out as quickly as possible and then ducked his head as if he were afraid of having asked the question.

“A valet attends to their employer’s domestic needs.”

It was quiet and the boy stared apprehensively at Reginald, as if surprised that he had answered at all.

“Wassa domestic?” The boy asked.

The trip to London would be long and they weren't even at the station yet. Reginald let out a huff of air, a huff nearly indiscernible. The boy shrank.

“Sorry, I just,” the boy snapped his mouth shut after his lips quivered about words.

He ducked his head down again and said nothing more. Reginald was relieved. The incessant babbling of a child was the last thing he wanted to indulge in. However, the boy kept shooting him nervous looks, blue eyes wide with anxiety and interest.

Pulling up to the station, their driver transported the luggage, leaving Reginald to make his way with his new charge to the ticket counter and from there to a first class compartment. Little Bertie followed meek as a lamb, always one step behind and holding his cap in his hands. Once they had reached the platform, Bertie’s blue eyes had sparkled with excitement, his eyes lighting on the train and sticking fast. 

Reginald suppressed a smile at the boy's barely suppressed energy. He waited for the boy to cry out, to say something or rush forward to see the great locomotive with better sight. The boy contained himself and Reginald felt a small twinge. He had fond memories of being a child and playing at the rails. His mother, poor as she'd been, had given them every allowance she could; there was nothing better for the mind she said then unbridled imagination and a curiosity to keep it at bay.

Then they had settled in the compartment. Bertie, still well behaved, sat down far away from his window, eyes staring in youthful dolence at the sights he was missing. Pressing one's face up against glass though was too ignominious a deed for a Wooster to be performing.

The train started and the boy stayed rooted there even as he looked to be in pain from the action of abstaining.

Finally Reginald broke, sympathy being drawn forth despite it's insisting reticence.

“It would not be remiss of you to look out the window Mr. Wooster, in fact, many gentlemen entertain themselves as such.”

Bertie stared at Reginald, looked at the window, bit his lip and then sprung toward it, his torrent of energy loosing. He pressed his face up to the glass, cap falling onto the seat beside him as his fingers splayed across the transparent material, no doubt smudging it.

Reginald smiled at the display, meditating on the boyhood wonder which shone in the child’s eyes. He was a meek, quiet little thing, and he kept himself well amused.

Hours limped along and soon they were nearly to London, leaving Birmingham well behind them. Bertie was fast asleep, sprawled across the compartment seat. The train rolled to a stop and Reginald, who had closed to shades after Bertie had fallen asleep, peered past them to see the station. It was late evening. His eyes went to the child, the boy’s mouth agape and a thin line of drool making a small pool on the seat at the base of Bertie’s cheek.

Reginald gently shook the boy’s shoulder, “Mr. Wooster.”

Bertie eyes blinked open and he stared fuzzily at Reginald.

“We’ve arrived Mr. Wooster.”

Yawning, Bertie sat up, slowly coming around. He eyed Reginald warily. Reginald did not meet the child’s gaze.

Dismounting the train they were met by chill weather, they were lucky to escape the pouring rain due to the platform’s covering. Bertie was not dressed for such weather, wearing a suit of light cotton, short trousers just above his knees and thin socks pulled up to meet them. The boy shivered and folded his arms about himself. Reginald glanced at the boy, he was sure Bertie would be fine, but the boy looked so pathetic.

Reginald took his own wool coat off, wondering at the forethought of whoever had dressed the boy, and draped it over the boy’s shoulders. Bertie started, stared up at Reginald first in fright and then as the warmth started to seep into him he looked with a pitiful confusion at the coat. 

Reginald was not prepared for the warmth of the gaze the boy levelled at him, the absolute gratitude and sweetness was disarming. He stopped the quirk of his lip, and looked up, eyes searching for their driver who was to meet them.

Seeing the man gesture to them, Reginald began walking towards him, their luggage already being loaded in the back of the car.

He barely caught the tiny whisper of thanks that issued from the boy.

As they stepped into the vehicle and Reginald saw in full view the boy ensconced in his coat he told himself that the motivations were purely from a professional aspect, for if Mr. Wooster were to fall ill he would be reprimanded, even Mr. Wooster’s small smile was only evinced by Reginald’s ploy to gain the child’s trust, for it would be easier to manage the boy that way.

They arrived at a nice, roomy flat, their things being taken upstairs by the driver and Reginald in meantime pulling the furniture sheet from the settee and guiding the boy to sit upon it. He then went to the kitchen. The larder was quite bare, Mrs. Worplesdon had done little to have the place prepared. Luckily some tea sat in a corner and soon Reginald was preparing it.

It was much too late to send an order to a grocer, but he would be able to rise early enough to secure the much needed groceries. When he brought the tea out to the boy, Bertie was fast asleep. The tea was returned to the kitchen and Reginald went to what would be the boy’s bedroom. 

The room was also poorly outfitted, containing a spartan collection of items and those that did occupy it were plain, if of some virtuosity in quality, and hardly ideal for a boy. Reginald let his lips inch down so a slight frown was visible. Though he disliked Mrs. Worplesdon’s apparent indifference to her nephew, he could see that this disinterest would provide him some form of freedom. For her to even bother with the boy as she had --a valet was no petty cost-- meant that his finances must be out of her direct grasp. Reginald made up the bed, pitying that there were only a few clean sheets, though a long time clean, that were stowed in the closet. Then he returned to the living room where Bertie was still fast asleep, curled up in Reginald’s jacket.

Carefully Reginald lifted the child, noting that the boy was a bit thin for his age, and he wondered, from Mrs. Worplesdon’s own disinterest and the discontent which floated like a miasma through her staff, both in and out of the house, if the young Mr. Wooster had been properly cared for in the time following his parents’ death. 

He tucked the boy in, pulling the shoes off his feet. He was disappointed but not surprised to see that they were a tad tight, the clothes also seemed just a bit too small, not particularly noticeable but Reginald had a keen mind and an avid interest when it came to men’s fashion; he was very well aware of how exactly a piece of cloth should fit based on the popular style.

Bertie only stirred once, nearly waking, but being soothed back to sleep by a gentle hand pressing against his forehead.

Reginald left the room and sat down heavily at the kitchen table, eyes roving the few papers he'd brought. An extensive amount of work needed to be done, the flat properly fixed for furnishings, said furnishings then needing to be purchased, the larder filled, the young Mr. Wooster wardrobed, a doctor contacted and contracted, the list went on and on. Reginald let out a small sigh and began what he could work on.

The night was not peaceful, Reginald was startled awake by a scream, rushing from his bed he wielded a candelabra in one hand and entered Bertie's bedroom with a sinister gracefulness. There was no intruder however, merely a ball of trembling sheets. Reginald easily set the candelabra on the dresser as if that was where he meant to put it the whole time and approached the bed.

“Mr. Wooster?”

There was no response, just little choked cries.

“Bertie,” Reginald said, softening his voice.

The sheets stilled and we're withdrawn just so, blue eyes peeping out.

“I'm terribly sorry,” Bertie said through tears and snot, “I didn't mean to wake you.”

Reginald was silent a moment, taken aback at the response.

“No apologies necessary, sir.”

It was quiet another moment.

“Will you need anything to sleep, sir?”

Bertie's eyes quivered, obviously on the precipice of asking something. He shrunk back under his sheets though.

“No, thank you.”

Reginald gave a small nod and left the room, a small seed of doubt burying itself in his gut, wondering if he shouldn't have pressed the child just a tad more.

 

Reginald woke very early, immediately headed for the grocers. He doubted the young Mr. Wooster would be awake anytime soon, but expediency would not be unwanted. Luck befell him and he met the milk man outside the door just as the car was about to pass by. He politely interrupted the man's routine, a well received reprieve for the man spoke bonhomous regard and was very willing to add them to the route for such and such amount. He also gave Reginald directions to the nearest grocer who was worth their weight in salt, or so he said. 

The morning was boding well so far and Reginald made it to the grocery in due time. Arrangements were quickly made and a hearty promise that no customer would go with anything less than a veritable cornucopia, in fact, delivery would be made that day. The butcher and baker worked jointly with the grocer and Reginald was saved extra trips and difficulties. He brought back with him enough supplies to last the first few meals of the day.

His last visit was to the telegraph office, contacting someone who would link him to a child's doctor.

He arrived back at the flat satisfied with his progress and pleased to find the young Mr. Wooster fast asleep. With a small hum of satisfaction he moved to the kitchen, rolling his starched sleeves up with careful precision.

For whatever reason, Reginald found the kitchen a place of solace. He had been working as a gentlemen’s valet since he’d turned twenty, some six years now, and not much could compare to their kitchens. It was usually always a grand place, small enough to manage though, there was no bustle or hustle accorded to a large household --the occasional dinner party the only thing to truly compare-- and he generally experienced one meal days interspersed with gratuitous amounts of alcohol. 

He was nearly done with breakfast when he turned around and was surprised by the little figure in the doorway. Bertie immediately ducked behind the frame, disappearing from view, as Reginald’s eyes fastened on him.

Reginald said nothing, continuing his efforts, when out of the corner of his eye he spotted the beginnings of a blonde crest of hair. Blue eyes peeped from around the corner and Reginald hid a smile. He pretended not to notice and Bertie slowly eased back into his position of watchful interest.

“Are you ready for breakfast, sir?”

Bertie jumped, eyes wide at having been caught. Reginald merely placed the meal upon the table. He looked up to see that Bertie hadn’t moved.

“Would you prefer to bathe first, sir?”

That got some movement out of Bertie, the boy shot forward and clambered into the chair like his life depended on it. Reginald barely kept a chuckle from escaping, it seemed that every little child everywhere was an avid revolutionist when it came to the antiquated ideology of bath time.

Reginald was glad the boy didn’t want to, he didn’t have all of the items necessary to make it an official bath. There was also the issue of clothing. Reginald had sorted through the boy’s trunk the night before and had found much of the clothing was in the same state as the outfit the boy had been wearing. Too small, just by a bit, and based upon the summer season and not the late spring. He had a niggling idea of why that was, but it would be practically treasonous to think it and depressing to consider that his suspicions might be confirmed.

The boy hesitantly started eating, gaze turning to Reginald but never staying long. He was terribly jumpy and Reginald had his own thoughts on that matter as well. A few minutes into the meal, as Reginald began clearing away a few empty or now obsolete dishes, Bertie paused in his fastidious eating.

“When will I be going back to Aunt Agatha?”

For such a timid question, sallied forth with every bit of meekness, it shook Reginald. He was baffled, surely Mrs. Worplesdon had not been so neglectful as to fail to inform the child of his new living conditions?

He was unable to respond, halting even his process of clearing the table.

“I’m afraid, Mr. Wooster, that you will not be returning,” Reginald replied.

The boy’s eyes were cast down to his plate and they grew ominously filled with water.

“Oh,” Bertie said in reply.

Reginald nearly said a heartfelt ‘oh’ back.

“If I’m bad, Mr. Valet, will you send me away as well? To an orphanage?”

Reginald stuttered to a halt again.

“No, Mr. Wooster, and you may call me Jeeves, valet is merely my occupation.”

Reginald continued clearing the dishes and was in the midst of preparing the wash when Bertie took his attention once again.

“Aunt Agatha said that’s where I should go if I’m bad, you’ll tell me if I start to be bad, I won’t, I really won’t, but just in case, so I can be good,” Bertie said earnestly, not truly having heard Reginald’s response.

“Of course, Mr. Wooster,” he reassured.

Bertie was quiet, eating his breakfast with gusto, though he kept sneaking looks all the while at Reginald.

Reginald for that matter was a mite disturbed by the whole turn of events. He’d never turned down a position before, quickly having taken on a fearsome reputation as the valet who could manage any bachelor, no matter how unruly. He’d enjoyed the adulation with a quiet, preening sort of pride, one he often didn’t admit to having. This situation, however, was something entirely apart from him. One could not, through elegant finesse or unruly wrassling, bring a seven year old child to the altar and end his bachelor status once and for all, in fact the bachelor status had yet to even begin. There was always the option to resign from the position, begging the best regards but that he was not up to the task. Reginald had never left the employ of anyone though other than through the machinations of marriage.

“‘Scuse me,” a tiny voice peeped.

Reginald reprimanded himself for becoming engrossed so fully in his thoughts that he had not noticed Bertie’s movement. The boy was standing beside him, his dishes carefully arranged in his arms. Reginald glanced to the table to see that it had been cleared of crumbs and other vestiges of the breakfast. 

“I’m done,” Bertie said, head ducked down and looking up at Reginald nervously through his eye lashes.

“Very good, sir,” Reginald said softly, taking the plates from the boy before they slipped from the small hands that lacked the adroitness to carry them safely for long.

Bertie, once he’d had the dishes liberated from his grasp, flew from the room. Reginald blinked in surprise, setting the dirty items in the sink and wiping his hands on a towel. Without removing his half length apron, which just covered from the waist down to the knees, Reginald followed Bertie. The boy had retreated to his room. 

Reginald quietly entered to find Bertie under the bed, just his toes peeping out. Little noises were sounding out, the dramatized sounds of a battle with explosions and little cries from men. Reginald crouched down and lowered his head, peering underneath. Bertie was on his stomach, brow furrowed in deep concentration, as he played with a small collection of rocks and pebbles. The grey stones were one side apparently and all the rest were the other, the poor grey were doing very poorly if Bertie’s animatics were to be trusted.

It took Bertie a few moments to notice Reginald but when he did the boy started so badly his head collided with the wood underside creating a sharp resounding crack. Scrambling out from under the bed, Bertie was rubbing at the afflicted area on his skull while staring in wide eyed trepidation at Reginald.

Reginald who had stood, was looking with keen amusement at the boy.

“Sorry, sorry,” Bertie blurted out, “I didn’t mean to steal them, I just thought nobody would miss a few pebbles from the garden. I didn’t tell Aunt Agatha or Mrs. Fisky, and nobody would miss a few pebbles would they?” 

Reginald kept an impassive face, fighting the desire to lift his brow in amusement.

“No, they most certainly would not,” Reginald said gently.

It was silent and Bertie shifted his feet unsurely, appearing as though he wasn’t quite sure if he was in trouble or not.

“I just came to inform you Mr. Wooster that we’ll be traveling to a boutique today to have you outfitted. We will be leaving soon.”

Bertie frowned in confusion, Reginald’s unexplosive response obviously unexpected.

“O-okay,” he replied.

Reginald gave a small nod and left the room.

 

The trip to the boutique went well, Bertie fidgeted somewhat, but he listened very well and absolutely glowed under the kind attention of the matronly seamstress who measured him and tut-tutted at the outfit he’d walked in with. A few outfits, which were not tailored and fit a little awkwardly on Bertie were sent with them to tide them over until his commissioned items were ready. Bertie fell in love with a pair of hideous cowboy boots, an American style apparently, that Reginald cringed at the sight of. The whole time Bertie’s little eyes were fastened to them, blue orbs shining with boyish desire. They were not purchased.

Returning to the flat, Reginald was pleased to find that the groceries had been delivered. The day ended well enough and Reginald fell asleep feeling as if he was starting to get a grasp on the situation.

A sound woke him. It wasn’t loud, but after so many debacles previous drunk or just plain immature employers had performed, Reginald was a light sleeper. So the barely audible sound of something or someone moving woke him. Reginald got up from bed, mind thinking of the night before. He took the same candelabra as before and proceeded to Bertie’s bedroom. It was placed with the self-same grace as the night before on the bureau. Bertie was not in bed, instead curled up in a corner of the room with the top blanket, softly crying.

He obviously hadn’t heard Reginald enter, still curled up.

“Mr. Wooster?” Reginald spoke.

Bertie’s head snapped up and he looked at Reginald for a moment before his eyes fell to the floor.

“If you’ll come to the kitchen, Mr. Wooster,” Reginald spoke before Bertie’s mouth, which had fallen open, could utter the apology which was most undoubtedly intended to fall from it.

Bertie looked terrified, but he stood, making his way with a trembling resolve to the kitchen. Reginald followed after. They entered the kitchen and Reginald turned to the ice box, withdrew a bottle of milk, and then turned to the stove top. Bertie was standing in the middle of the kitchen as though awaiting his very own execution.

“If you’ll sit, sir,” Reginald prompted softly.

Bertie turned like an automaton and seated himself at the table. 

Reginald poured some milk into a pan that he’d heated on the stove, scalding it. He then poured it into a small serving cup. Coming over to the table he placed it in front of Bertie and then drew a chair.

Bertie eyed the drink in confusion and then turned his gaze onto Reginald.

“I find warmed milk best partaken when it is still warm,” Reginald said.

Bertie took the prompt and began sipping at it. It was absolutely silent, a warm comfortable silence as well, the vapor stove heating the kitchen and leaving the atmosphere pleasant. Reginald just sat, relaxed and showing no anger, impatience or annoyance. Bertie slowly relaxed as well, eyes fluttering as the milk did its work. 

When he was nearly half asleep Reginald glanced at his time piece. It was just past two in the morning.

“Are you ready to sleep, Mr. Wooster?” Reginald asked softly.

Bertie blinked languidly and stood up. Reginald ushered him to the room, but once they were there, Bertie stiffened.

“Is something the matter, sir?”

Bertie nearly shook his head.

“W-would you, if you don’t mind, would you stay with me?” Bertie peered up at Reginald, “Till I fall asleep?”

Reginald hesitated, then he gave a nod.

“Of course Mr. Wooster,” he replied.

Bertie climbed into bed and pulled the blankets up around himself while Reginald brought a kitchen chair in, no other furniture available for the task in the poorly furnished room. Bertie started to nod off immediately.

“Good night, Mr. Wooster,” Reginald said softly, thinking Bertie was asleep.

“You can call me Bertie,” the boy mumbled out.

Reginald gave a small smile.

“Good night, Bertie,” he said.

Bertie smiled, soon falling asleep.


End file.
